The Fault in Our Stars Sequel
by stilinskihudson
Summary: Ignoring the completely unoriginal title, this is a fanfiction that continues John Green's The Fault in Our Stars.
1. Chapter 1

Twenty days AG.

Keeping track of time has been measured in this way- After Gus. Twenty days since Augustus Waters, the lanky, blue eyed boy with the crooked smile and a fear of oblivion limped across this earth. Twenty days since I've been called Hazel Grace. Twenty-eight days since his pre-funeral, where I read him the eulogy I had written him-The Last Good Day of Augustus Waters.

Twenty days ago marked a new era in my life-an era that should not exist. It's the equivalent of adding another book to a novel that had the perfect ending. Except, in this particular case, a spectacularly imperfect ending.

I was supposed to die before Augustus. This was a rule between us, not really spoken aloud, but we both knew it. I was the one with the crappy lungs, I was the terminally cancer-filled one, my fate already determined. He was the survivor. Until one day he wasn't.

And now I, Hazel Grace Lancaster, live in an Augustus Waters - free world, which was not part of the agenda.

I had prepared myself to die. I was ready. Well, I guess as ready as you can be after meeting the love of your short life. I had accepted the fact that I would die, and Augustus would continue living on without me, thus why I had tried to distance myself from him to avoid potential heartbreak, and by the way, failed miserably. I hadn't expected the situation to be reversed. I let myself fall, and I fell hard, fully believing with every fiber in my being that I would be long since rotting in the ground when Gus died.

The universe must be laughing its ass off right about now, watching me in all my oxygen tank glory, sitting on my bed, most certainly _above_ the ground, scrolling through texts between Gus and I. How funny it must be to the universe that the tables have turned, the irony of the potentially cured patient no longer breathing, and the terminally ill one left behind.

I have abandoned the thought of a cancer-free life after being diagnosed. I don't think you can just 'get rid of it.' You may be able to subdue it, put it to sleep, but eventually it will awaken, and it will not go away, unless it brings you down with it.

**Augustus Waters:** Okay?

**Me:** Okay.

I blink a few times at the text. Of course, there are many messages identical to this, but all the same I stare at the words on my screen, feeling anything but okay. But it's okay, because we were okay.

I half smile to myself at the memory of when I had first met him, and he'd made a snarky comment about the infinite number of "Always" Isaac and his girlfriend-at-the-time Monica had texted each other over the course of the year. Joke is on us, though, because we treated 'okay' the same way. I wonder to myself if on that day Augustus knew what we would become.

Somehow, I feel inside me that he did.

* * *

**A/N: Hello! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy all other chapters from here on out! This was mostly just a introductory chapter :)**


	2. Chapter 2

"Isaac, do you think Augustus is in oblivion?" I ask softly as Isaac and I sit in the Literal Heart of Jesus, us being the first kids here. I kind of feel out of place-The room seems to not only lack the presence of other kids, but more specifically, the presence of Augustus Waters.

He pushes his glasses that hide his empty eye sockets up, and has a moment of hesitance. "No. Yeah. Maybe. I don't know." his voice sounds tired. "I want to say no. God, you have _no_ idea- well, actually, you probably do- how much I wish that he was sitting here in ghost formation in the same freaking room as us, or up in the pearly gates playing the harp with Jesus or some shit. But..." Isaac trails off.

"The world is not a wish-granting factory." I finish, although Gus isn't here to confirm it. Or maybe he is. I can't bring myself to believe it.

Isaac turns his head to look at me in a way that makes me forget he has no vision. "Yeah, that about sums it up, doesn't it?"

* * *

Support group drones on. I hadn't attended since I had looked for the nonexistent letter to me that Gus had written. The words of his letter to Peter Van Houton are permanently etched into my brain. I recall Isaac telling Gus that support group helps. With what, I realize, I have no idea. Helps scare off the cancer? Helps you cope? Helps you let go? All it does for me is help me remember how unfair the world is.

As if I need a reminder.

Augustus' name is tacked onto the end of the long list of people cancer victims, and it seems to echo in my mind as I stand up from the chair I am sitting in once we are dismissed. As I bring myself to my feet, I feel lightheaded. I instinctively adjust the tube around my neck, and guide Isaac to the elevator, blinking in a daze through the multicolored spots clouding my vision. My breathing sounds shallow to even myself.

I punch in the number for the first floor into the elevator's control panel. When the elevator lurches downwards, my stomach seems to lodge itself into my throat, suddenly making me feel nauseous. I adjust the nubbins in my nose, trying not to freak out. My oxygen tank was fine earlier...

I attempt to swallow a couple times to dislodge the lump in my throat, but it only makes me cough, making it worse.

Once the elevator comes to a halt, I vomit.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much to ****Desss4ever****, ****LineSofie****, and ****Liv****for the reviews! It means so much to know you're enjoying it! All feedback is appreciated! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

"Dammit Hazel, you could have, you know, given me some type of warning _before _revealing your inner stomach acids tothe outside world, which happened to be on my new shoes." Isaac says to me as he sits in the chair next to my hospital bed, his eyebrows pulling together in slight disgust, although I can tell that he isn't really mad.

"Unfortunately for you, you may have been able to prevent this situation if you were able to see the pre-vomit look on my face that I'm sure I was wearing."

"Well, unfortunately for me," Isaac responds. "I happen to still have my sense of smell, which for the record, sucks way worse than not having eyes. It was not the most pleasant smell I have had the misfortune of enduring."

"Sorry."

"It's alright."

I'm not exactly sure why Isaac is here. I mean, yeah, we've been talking quite frequently lately, but it isn't like we're BFFs, or something. I honestly think he's just lonely, since his best friend has been relieved of the privilege of being a person, so I am his second option. Not ragging on Isaac or anything, it's just the truth as I see it. Maybe he needs new friends-ones that won't puke on his new shoes.

I had been barely conscious when the elevator door had opened back at the church, and my mom had to rush me to the hospital to have my lungs unliquidified once more. They had filled up with cancer-water much faster than the norm, so the doctor had drugged me up on philaxifor, and the BiPAP was pumping oxygen into my crap-lungs, making breathing a do-able task.

"Isaac, your mother is here." Mom's voice snaps me back to reality.

"Later, Hazel." Isaac stands, and his mother enters the room, flashing me a small smile as she helps Isaac out of the room.

"Hi honey, how are you feeling?" Mom asks once the door clicks closed.

"Just peachy." I reply, my strained voice emphasizing my response.

"You'll be alright, it's just like all the other visits." she seems to be trying to convince herself just as much as me.

"Where's dad?"

"He's bringing you some books and things to do," she explains. "Sorry to say that the doctor said that you'll be staying overnight."

I suppress a sigh that threatens to escape my lips. It seems like I would have gotten used to hospitals by now, or at least grown to hate them less, but I haven't. If anything, the intolerance has increased, with the thought of Augustus dying in one.

I wish he was here with me now, although I must look like hell.

"He said you can go home tomorrow." Mom's eyes sparkle with hope, but I can't share her excitement. I hate how she feels the need to stand vigil bedside the entire time I am in the hospital, it makes a guilty feeling knot itself in my stomach. It can't be easy watching your only daughter die.

The doorknob to my room wiggles, and when it opens, my father is revealed on the other side, a couple books stacked in his hands, as if he expects me to read all of them in less than twenty-four hours. I attempt to ignore his red-rimmed, freshly tear-dripped eyes.

"Hey, Hazel." he smiles a toothless smile, and sets the book on the stand next to me. I do my best to return the smile.

"Thanks."

"How are you feeling?" Dad's eyes bore into mine.

"I'm alright."

"Good." my dad nods once, blinking away his tears, preventing them from making a reappearance. My gaze flickers from my mother to my father, and I come to the conclusion that I would much rather be asleep than see these hurt looks on their faces. I have no desire to see the worried faces they've worn around me since AG, like they're afraid that if they look at me wrong, I'll break.

"I appreciate you guys being here, but I need some sleep." I say, my eyes already drooping closed.

"Go ahead and get some rest, dear. You need some rest." Mom's voice is thick as her hand strokes through my hair once, and I am lost to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! They give me motivation to write!**


	4. Chapter 4

After checkout, the ride home from the hospital is awkward. Mom's gaze averts my own, her eyes checking the rearview mirror more often than is needed, and when they aren't doing that, her eyes are planted firmly on the white line on the road, as if she is watching it to make sure it doesn't grow legs and run away.

She thinks I'm dying.

Okay, well, of course I'm dying. I have been since diagnosis. If you want to be technical about it, so is she, and everyone else.

Anyway, back to point, she thinks that I am legitimately dying.

I've been on my deathbed before, in both the metaphorical and literal sense, (I was moved to a new hospital bed tha would be the bed of my death.) But a miracle saved me. However, I think I'm running out of miracles.

"Hazel." my mother begins. I wait for to continue, and when she doesn't, I raise my head to look at her, cocking a questioning eyebrow. A crease forms between her eyebrows, like she's trying to decide how to say what's on her mind.

"I've noticed something for a while, but I thought it would pass. But I see it's only getting worse."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, although I have a weird feeling in my gut that I know what she's thinking about. I know it by the way she looks at me- like I'm a kicked puppy, or something.

"Remember before you started going to Support Group, how we visited the doctor, and he said you were depressed?"

_How could I forget?_

I nod slowly, my gaze retreating to the window, watching the world pass my vision in blurs.

"After... after meeting Augustus, you were so much better, happier, healthier. And now... you're worse than ever."

She's exaggerating. I've been almost-dead, which is significantly worse than the state I am in _now._

"My boyfriend died." the words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Yes, he did." Mom confirms. "And believe me, I know that it can't be easy by any means, but you're letting it consume you." her voice falters at the end, but she picks it back up again immediately when she continues. She is not going to let this go. "You're letting it kill you, Hazel. and your father and I hate to see you give up on your life like this."

I give her a sideways glance. "So, you're blaming my cancer on my dead boyfriend? It was here before him, mom."

"I know." her voice is beginning to get exasperated, her knuckles turning white as they tighten on the steering wheel. "Haze, I just hate to see you just, give up. You are strong, you can get through this."

The more she speaks, the more she reminds me of Patrick.

Mom continues talking about my 'struggle with cancer,' and how 'Augustus wouldn't want me to give up,' and all the things people tell you when people close to you die. Really, it doesn't help. Nothing can help, except bringing the person back.

I don't think anyone will ever learn that.

* * *

_My feet kick outwards as I soar in the air, my plastic swing stiff underneath me, not exactly the model of comfort, but I'm far beyond caring. A hand gently pushes on my lower back, pushing me higher in the air, and I can't help but laugh._

_"Gus, I'm not five, I was taught how to pump my legs." I smile, although he can't see it._

_"Have you never seen...hmm, let's see, any romantic movie ever?" he asks, and I picture him cocking an eyebrow behind me. "It's what the boyfriend does, Hazel Grace. I am only abiding by the rules of society."_

_I snort, rolling my eyes. "Right. Since when have you been concerned about society?"_

_As the swing flies backwards, it jolts to a halt, and I see Gus's hands firmly keeping me in place, half suspended in the air. He guides me back to the swing's original state, and pecks me on the cheek, before whispering in my ear: "Well damn, you got me there."_

Sunlight invading the outsides of my eyelids is the next thing I feel. I blink drearily, scrubbing the sleep out of my eyes with the heel of my hand as I prop myself up on my other elbow.

"Rise and shine!" Mom beams at me, obviously in a much more upbeat mood than the day previous.

"Morning." I grumble not so cheerily, and inspect my hand, and wipe the tears that had fallen in my sleep on my comforter, attempting to ignore them completely. That seems to be all I do with everything nowadays-ignore it until it's gone or forgotten. My cheek still feels the pressure of Augustus' lips, as if it had actually happened. The dreams always make it much, much harder to cope.

"We're going shopping today." Mom says, a determined look plastered on her face, obviously not going to take any arguments or sass today. She means business.

"Why?" I ask, looking at her through half squinted eyes, still adjusting to the open drapes letting sunlight steam into my room. I try to ignore the heavy feeling in my eyelids from crying in my sleep. Thankfully, my mother doesn't seen to notice them. If she does, she says nothing, and I am grateful.

"Why not?" She backfires. "I think it's time for some mother-daughter bonding, wouldn't you agree?"

I manage a smile. "Yeah."

She turns heel and walks out the door, leaving me to get ready to face the world, I would imagine. I groan as I swing my legs off the bed, really not feeling the whole "human interaction" thing today. But since Mom is dead set on the concept, declining the offer is not really an option.

I half-heartedly make my bed, tossing the sheets towards the bed frame, wrinkled and not really made at all, if I'm being honest. I pull the comforter up near my pillows, and dig through my drawers until I find something suitable to wear for the day, struggling more than usual around my tubes, my mind still foggy from sleep. My bed suddenly seems much more inviting.

Mom has a bagel waiting for me on the kitchen table once I finish, a little dish of cream cheese open, the knife laying abandoned across the top, some leftover cream cheese smeared on the side from when Mom had used it moments before. She looks at me through mid-bite of her bagel. "You look pretty today." She comments, and I arch an eyebrow at her, because not only is it out of the blue, but more than likely completely false. I had barely looked in the mirror, not wanting to see my own sunken eyes. "How are you feeling?" She adds, holding her fist up to her mouth to avoid spewing bagel crumbs.

"I'm good." I respond, applying the cream cheese to my bagel carefully. I've felt pretty much back to normal upon arriving home from the hospital, nothing worth complaining about.

"Great!" She smiles. "Then we have a long day of shopping ahead of us." she winks, and I swallow back my distaste, dreading going outside the walls of my house.

I think that my mom believes she is being subtle, but I see right through her antics. She wants to give me a sense of normalcy, something aside from longing glances at old text messages and hospital visits, a taste of what life could be like.

Honestly, I'm not sure which is the better option, anymore.

* * *

**A/N: So I literally just got back from seeing TFIOS in theaters and I have one word. WOWITWASSOGOODANDIWANTTODIE.  
Thank you ****Hanna 3, ****, ****0InScense0****, ****Desss4ever****, and ****MonicaTheGirlOnline****for all the kind encouragements! Seriously, they make me happier than you will ever know :)**


	5. Chapter 5

I try not to make my labored breathing obvious as Mom and I trudge through Kohls, my feet aching from hours of wandering through various stores in the mall. She's asked me multiple times if I want to rest, but every time I decline. I can handle this. I don't need to put a damper on what Mom believes to be the highlight of my week. Well, honestly, it probably is, but that's besides the point.

After checking out our things, Mom takes hold of the bags, and turns to me. "Ready to get something to eat, dear?" she asks.

"Yeah, sounds good." I nod, silently thanking a higher power.

I walk a couple paces behind my mother, pulling Phillip along behind me. I try to ignore the sympathetic stares of bystanders, hating the feeling of eyes boring into my back, my tubes, _me. _Just because I'm sick, doesn't mean I'm blind.

After a moment of decision-making, we decide on Burger King, me getting a fry and a cherry icee, Mom getting a burger meal. We sit at the table that is the furthest back, against the window. I feel safer from people's stares here, but I don't voice that aspect.

Mom unwraps her burger, occasionally shooting me glances when she thinks I'm not looking, her eyebrows furrowing together in worry.

For some reason, I find myself resisting the urge to cry. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be looked at in this way. I suddenly can't stand all the stares, although I've been getting them for the majority of my life. Suddenly, it makes me want to tear my hair out. I want to lay in my bed, and cry until there is not a drop of moisture left in my body. I want _Augustus. _

I want his laugh. His smile. His lips pressed against my own. I want to watch him limp down the corridors of the church. I want to watch him play that video game with Isaac. I want _him._

He's all I can think about. _Augustus. _

He gave me everything I could have ever wanted, ever needed, in life. And he is gone, and took everything with him. And what's it even worth?

Everything. It's worth _everything._

As much as I hate this empty feeling inside of me, the grief gnawing away at my heart, I wouldn't give up a second of my time spent with Augustus Waters.

"Hazel." Mom's eyes cloud over with worry, indicating that she had said my name multiple times before I returned back to planet earth.

"Hm?" I ask, not wanting to risk using actual words out of fear that my voice will crack at my sudden wave of emotion.

"Are you alright?" she asks, although I'm sure she knows the answer.

"Not really." There's no use beating around the bush.

"Honey..." she begins. Whenever a mother starts out a sentence with _honey, _it's your first clue that this is a conversation you'd rather pass. "If I could help, I would," she says, and the sincerity on her voice physically pains me, because there is in fact nothing she can do. Augustus is gone. Not on vacation. Gone. No longer in existence. It isn't as if she can drag him back by the ear.

"I know." my voice is thick.

"Is there anything I can do, to help, in any way?" she is pleading now, desperately clinging to the pieces of her daughter that are falling off me, broken shards onto the ground.

"I don't know."

"If there's anything you need, want, anything, you can tell me."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

My dreams that night are plagued with Augustus.

* * *

I am running through the scenery of Isaac's game, burning buildings all around me, the sky a smoke-filled gray, making my already struggling lungs suffocate. How unfortunate that even in my dreams I am so screwed when it comes to physical activity.

Augustus is running ahead of me, limping all the way, every so often calling my name over his shoulder. "Come on, Hazel Grace! There are children in need!" a small smile tugs at the edges of his lips, and he continues running, pushing faster and faster, leaving me behind, heaving each breath into my body as if it's my last. I _need _to catch up to him. Not just for the children, but for me. I need to catch up to him, see him, hug him.

Just as I reach him, I wake up.

Sweat drips down the side of my face, as if I had actually been running. I use my sheet to rub my face, sitting up. Sunlight streams through the cracks in my blinds. The multi-colored clock on my dresser reads nine thirty, so I figure I may as well get up.

After preparing myself for the day and walking-more like stumbling- down the stairs, I run a distressed hand through my hair, leaning in the threshold of my kitchen doorway, unsure of what to make of the sight I have the misfortune of seeing is sitting at my kitchen table.

A man, who has a smile plastered onto his face stares into my eyes, almost as if he is searching for my soul. He has a little briefcase leaned up against the leg of the table, and is wearing clothes that are too casual for a formal event, but too formal to be casual.

Only one explanation is plausible-he's a therapist.

I fight the growing urge to smack my head against the wall behind my head.

This is _not_ what I want to start out my day doing.

Really, a therapist wouldn't be all bad, if I thought there was at least _half_ a chance of hope that he could help. However, this is not the case.

My family fails to understand that I am not sad to the point of being repaired. I am not a broken cell phone that you can just send into the store and get fixed, or soak in rice to relieve its damage.

"Good morning, Hazel," the man smiles a bit too warmly at me. I shoot mom a pleading glance. However, she just gives me an apologetic look, that when you think about it should _not _be apologetic. She's the one who did this, therefore, she is not sorry.

"Hi." I say, crossing my arms across my chest, not leaving my perch in the doorway.

"My name is Dave Berkfield." he begins, then stops, looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to introduce myself. As if he doesn't already know my name. I blink once at him slowly, then stare at my mother.

She must see how uncomfortable I am, because she starts speaking. "Hazel, Mr. Berkfield is here to help. I know this might be strange, but I promise, it's not as bad as you're thinking it is."

I am shaking my head before she is even finished explaining. "I do _not _need a therapist, or counselor, or whatever _Dave Berkfield _is." my tone is a bit more venomous then what I planned, but I continue anyway. "He can't help me."

"I understand why you're so upset-" Mr. Berkfield starts.

"No, you don't. There is nothing you can do, unless you can bring Gus back!" my voice cracks as a single tear streams down the side of my cheek. Angry at my mother, angry at the world, but most of all angry with myself for acting so childish, I run up the stairs as fast as my body will allow, and collapse onto my pillow, and let the tears overwhelm me.

* * *

**A:N: What do you guys think? All feedback is welcome and appreciated! Thank you to ****tabiustrice****, ****FangirlAlertWatchOut****, ****Desss4ever****, ****Amy Hamato****, SkittleSquidPig, Eve, Madison, and ****DauntlessGeekGal**** for your reviews! And who else has seen the movie? How did you like it?**


	6. Chapter 6

Needless to say, the next few days are rough.

Grudgingly I agree to seeing the counselor for at least a month, although I know with every bone in my body that it will do nothing to improve my state of mind. There is nothing to be said. Augustus is dead. My boyfriend is _dead._

My mom is convinced that I am in denial, that I don't want to feel better, that I am drowning myself in my own misery.

"Mom, why would I choose to be sad all the time? Trust me, if I _couldn't_ care, I _wouldn't._"

Unfortunately, that wasn't convincing enough.

So here I sit, An Imperial Affliction in my lap, in Mr. Berkfield's office, fingering the pages of the worn book absently as I pretend that I am anywhere but here.

The place is pretty much abandoned, the only sound the gurgle of the fish tank across the room, the fish swimming against the glass. I wonder how it must feel to see the same things everyday, be trapped in such a confined area, waiting for someone to nurture you, to give you attention.

I realize that I am a lot more like the fish in that tank than I had previously realized. Always going through the motions, under constant scrutiny, trapped inside of myself and my life.

Disturbed by the thought, I turn my head and swallow hard, looking at the book in my lap, reading synopsis as if I don't have it memorized, the words permanently engraved into my memory.

The wide, wooden door swings open, revealing a petite lady with rectangular glasses, her lips shimmering with lip gloss. "Hazel Lancaster?" her small voice calls out, her plain eyes searching the room, although there is no one in here but me. Her eyes rest on me as I bring myself to my feet, pulling Phillip along behind me.

"Come on in, Hazel." the woman smiles warmly at me.

"_As if I have a choice_." I grumble, too low for her to hear.

I walk slightly behind her as she leads me down a hallway that slightly resembles a dentist office of my childhood. I can't decipher the smell-it kind of smells like coffee and microwave popcorn.

The lady whose nametag reads Taylor stops in front of an open door. "Mr. Berkfield will be with you shortly." she promises. I walk reluctantly into the room, hesitating in the threshold as I take in my surroundings.

A bookshelf is stacked high with dusty books, looking as though they haven't been touched in years. Inspiration posters litter the walls, saying things such as BULLY **FREE ZONE** and** BELIEVE**. Encouragements. I cringe. I can't go anywhere without thinking of Gus, dammit.

I sink into a beanbag chair on the floor, no matter how childish it may be, grateful to rest my aching body. I recall the beanbag chair in Children's hospital that I used to sit in daily when I was young, almost claiming ownership of the thing. I would sit in front of the television with a few other kids, watching whatever cartoon at the time was entertaining us. How I wish things could be that easy: sitting in front of a screen in a beanbag chair, and being perfectly content with life, even though your lungs suck at being lungs and you're surrounded by so much illness.

I crave youth. Innocence. Things that I should still be experiencing but am deprived of.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I shouldn't be thinking this way- I am not selfish. I am not conceited. I'm lucky to be alive, I shouldn't be _complaining. _

Although, I am sitting in a counselor's office, which if we're being honest here, is exactly the place to complain. That's really all they want you to do here, isn't it?

The doorknob wiggles, and a man appears on the other side. He half smiles as he sees me sitting here, as if he wasn't expecting me to be here.

"Good morning, Hazel." he says pleasantly, crossing the room in slow strides, and sitting behind the desk. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay." I reply honestly, shrugging. "How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks. So, where should we begin today, Hazel?" he peers at me through his glasses, raising an eyebrow.

The look I give him must be dubious, because he adds: "Don't worry, we don't have to talk about anything deep. Say anything you want."

"I'd rather not."

"Well, we have an hour, so unless you want to spend it awkwardly sitting here averting my eyes, I'd say talking is a good option."

After thinking for a moment, I find my mouth opening, and I begin to tell him about breakfast.

"What is your stance on eggs for breakfast?" I ask him.

The question doesn't even faze him. "I'm a vegan, actually." A smile is tugging at the edge of his lips.

"I'm a vegetarian." I tell him, although I'm not really sure why I felt the need to share this information. "But why are eggs only acceptable as breakfast? Say if I wanted to eat eggs for lunch, it would be considered brunch. But what if I just want eggs? Why does it_ have_ to be associated with breakfast?"

Mr. Berkfield nods slowly, the smile still there, his head cocked as he listens. Once I finish my stance on poultry, he chuckles. "See, _now_ we're getting somewhere."

* * *

**A/N: Big thanks to ****Rue's Mockingjay Song****, ****TheLionFellInLoveWithTheLamb01, and ****Twilightlover1766****for all your encouraging words! It seriously makes me the happiest girl in the world when you guys say that you enjoy my writing, let alone it's your FAVORITE. Ugh. You guys spoil me. :') Let me know your thoughts! **


	7. Chapter 7

The sun is shining brightly overhead when I emerge from the building. I take in a deep breath- well, as deep as my lungs will allow, welcoming the warm, fresh air, much more appealing than the odd scents of the counselor's office.

I see my mom's car idling in the lot, her head ducked as she looks at something in her lap. The driver's window is rolled down, the slight breeze blowing a stray strand of hair away from her face. She doesn't lift her head until I am tugging on the locked passenger door.

"Oh, sorry hun," she leans over to pop the lock open, and I climb in rather ungracefully, settling Phillip at my feet. "How did it go?" she settles whatever she had been working on in the backseat-probably her paperwork to become a "Patrick."

"Better than expected." I reply honestly, although the spite inside of me doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that my resistance was in vain.

Mom's face lights up with pleasure. "That's great! I knew he'd be a good one."

"Yeah, yeah." I bite my lip to hide my smile. "But don't expect me to keep going there like, _all the time._" I add for good measure, although there isn't much conviction behind it. Really, it was almost _enjoyable._

"I wouldn't dream of it. What did you two talk about?"

I wag a finger at my mom as she reverses out of the parking lot. "You aren't supposed to ask, mom. That's kind of what a _counselor_ is for," I pause. "However, if you insist, we debated the importance of dairy products."

Mom looks disbelievingly at me through the corner of her eye. "Seriously, Hazel?"

I can't help but laugh. "Yeah, it was pretty intense."

Mom rolls her eyes, although a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I am not paying to have you discuss eggs with him, Hazel."

That makes my heart clench, although her tone is teasing. It really upsets me when she brings up money. Of course, she doesn't do that often, but I know all those hospital bills aren't cheap. With all the money that's spent on my piece of shit lungs she could probably have gotten something worthwhile, like a jet or maybe another, more functional kid.

She must sense my sudden change of mood, because she frowns, but then recovers quickly. "How about we go get some ice cream?" she asks.

"Sounds good." I murmur, maneuvering my gaze to the window, watching the world pass by in a slight blur.

* * *

Clouds loom in the air, matching the atmosphere of the current situation. A spiral cloud looms around the setting sun, coiling around it, almost like a blanket, keeping it safe from the dropping temperature.

I scuff my sneaker's toe further into the dirt, my head downcast as I stare at the tombstone in front of me.

**AUGUSTUS WATERS**

**1996-2012**

**BELOVED SON, LOVER, & PROT**

The words are cut off there, a little picture of baby Augustus deliberately hiding the words hidden behind it. Gus had insisted the 'lover' part, which his parents had agreed without complaint. However, he also insisted on "Protector of Animated Children" just for fun. His parents had shaken their heads, dismissing Gus' joke. However, I had written it on the paperwork. I figured it's the least I could do.

The 'lover' part of the equation, however, puts an uncomfortable lump in my throat, hard to breathe around.

I should be honored, flattered, that Gus wanted to put a little of myself onto the thing that he will be remembered by, but for some reason I'm not. Augustus will forever love me present tense, and I will love him forever present tense.

In the slim possibility that I grow old, then what will happen when I meet someone, and develop feelings? Then I will forever be committed to Gus, it says so on his _gravestone,_ for Christ sakes.

I don't realize I've started crying until a strangled sob escapes my body. I fall to my knees that suddenly can't support me. I need Gus. I need him like I need Phillip.

_Gus._

How can there be anyone _other than Gus?_

I press my head to my knees, attempting to control my shaking breaths, but falling flat. I need him. I miss him, in the most pathetic way.

"Hazel," a voice says behind me, startling me. "You should know better than to let your emotions get the better of you."

* * *

**A/N: As always, thanks to ****Amy Hamato****, ****thecolorgray****, ****LeoDaLion****, ****Desss4ever****, ****keerthana13****, and Maddie for the encouraging reviews! I never actually meant to write more than a couple chapters of this story, but your guys feedback gave me inspiration to write more! I can't thank you guys enough. Alright, blubbering complete. **


	8. Chapter 8

I raise my head from where it rests on my knees, my breaths shaky and uneven. I know who the voice belongs to without even turning around to look him in the eye.

Peter Van Houten.

"You're much more difficult to get rid of than I thought." I say, lacing as much venom as I can muster in my tone, letting him know without a doubt he is not welcome here.

"Yes, yes," Van Houten sits next to me, his ankles crossed out in front of him, his worn, dirty shoes much closer to Gus' headstone than I would like. "I know how much you are irritated with me, Hazel-"

"Understatement of the century." I interrupt, wiping my running nose with my sleeve. "I thought I made it clear at his funeral, I am done with your stupid games."

"I'm not here for a game," He sighs as if it physically pains him to do so. I glance at his hands, and am appalled at the fact that he doesn't have some expensive brand of alcohol within his grasp.

"I have come to this understanding," Van Houten's tone threatens to lose his patience. I cringe at his condescending tone, as if I'm a child, in need of pity and guidance. "I assume you've gotten Augustus' eulogy for you?"

"I did," my mouth feels dry, my heart doing weird pulsations at the memory of the words that were typed onto the paper. "Since when do you care? From my understanding on the topic, you want nothing more to do with us..erm, me." I correct myself.

"Not entirely," he shakes his head, and removes his glasses from his face, rubbing them on the hem of his shirt, cleaning off the fingerprints. "I don't owe either of you anything, Hazel. We are both aware of this. I know your story, and you know the story of my daughter." he pauses, composing himself before continuing. "I am not here to write you a sequel, as you can imagine. However, I am here for a specific purpose, believe it or not."

"Other than watching a girl grieve over her dead boyfriend?" I demand bitterly, not having the patience or the anything really to deal with this man. I yearn for back when I thought that he was a saint. When he as the god of a man that wrote the book that shaped my life, my obsession, my bible.

Although, in the same sense, I am grateful to learn the truth. He is most certainly not a saint. He is a drunk man who has been destroyed by grief, the shell of a great writer who changed my life. I am grateful to have the naive nature torn out of me, to have the knowledge that people are not what they should be, used to be, or have the potential of being.

I feel a shift inside of me, something smacking me in the face as I analyze Peter Van Houten.

His appearance makes my heart ache. Not because he reminds me of Gus and our time together, or the disappointment of the man he really is, but because he reminds me of me.

Not in the extreme sense, of course. I am not as wrecked with sadness as he is. Am I?

"Besides that," his voice snaps me back to reality. "I made zero changes to his eulogy. He wrote beautifully, though crudely, Honestly, yet bluntly."

I nod once curtly, still feeling a little distant as I compare Van Houten to myself, and getting more and more terrified by the increasing amount of similarities.

"I say this with the utmost sincerity, Hazel. But it has come to my attention that you do not have much time left, judging by the reports that I have received."

I whip my head to face him to quickly that it hurts. "What reports?"

"I stopped by your house earlier today, and your mother was understandably worried. Of course, she didn't say anything about you becoming more sick, but she did mention what a douchepants I was - to directly quote you. I could tell by the way she spoke of you in a way that only a distressed parent can. And now that I see you, wasting away in front of an empty grave site that things are only going downhill for you. Or underground, rather."

I am shaking with anger and fear with each progressing words. I want to hit him. How dare he make assumptions on my life, judge my lifestyle, disrupt my mother.

"Listen," I begin. "I am fully aware of my state of mind, Van Houten. It may come as a shock to you, but I am not utterly helpless. I just need time to grieve the love of my life. I don't care what you have to say, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that is important enough for you to come all the way here from Amsterdam to tell me that I'm going to die if I don't stop caring about Gus. This is a lie. Gus is not killing me. Cancer is killing me. The world is killing me, just as it's killing you."

"Grief is killing you." Peter interjects. "Trust me, young Hazel. I let it eat away at me, and I don't want it to do the same for you."

I must give him a mighty disbelieving face, because he continues, quicker. "I know it's hard to believe I have a heart after all the things that have been said and done. My mind has been wandering to my daughter ever since the funeral, more so than usual. And she reminds me of you. What she could have had. You don't know how lucky you have it, kid. You may die young, but she died younger. Maybe I'm here for the wrong reasons, telling you to live for the wrong reasons, but the fact that I'm telling you should mean something, should it not?"

My eyebrows furrow together at his statements. This man is going in circles. He's got what he wanted- he's lured me in.

"I'm listening." I say hesitantly.

"Excellent." a smile that is almost mistakable for a grimace crosses his face. "Then let's go get something to eat. I'm starving."

* * *

**A/N: Heehee, I love your guys reactions to the cliffhanger. :D  
Big thanks to ****TFIOS lover, ****Maddie, ****LumireBabette11****, ****moviestar01, ****FangirlAlertWatchOut****, ****keerthana13****, ****Rue's Mockingjay Song****, and ****Desss4ever**** for the reviews! And to Guest: I do watch vlogbrothers videos!  
I'll update next once I get up to 50 Reviews, how's that? :) [Currently at 43]**


	9. Chapter 9

I eye Van Houten as I absently stir the ice around in my cup with my straw. The restaurant he has chosen is dim-lighted, almost seeming like a bar, which isn't surprising. It smells of coffee and cigarettes, which is odd, considering I thought I saw a **NO SMOKING** sign upon entering.

Van Houten nibbles at a chicken sandwich, and I sip my soda, neither of us saying anything.

It feels incredibly wrong. The entire thing.

Being here with this phony of an author, in my hometown, discussing life and death and everything else. It's strange, and not in a good way. It makes my stomach swirl around and form a tight, uncomfortable knot in the pit. It makes my knee bounce with anxiety under the table.

"Not hungry?" Van Houten asks, peering at me over his rectangular glasses, his mouth full of poultry that I try my best to ignore.

I shake my head no.

"Suit yourself," Peter shrugs. "The food here is divine. By American standards."

My eyes hover over anything and everything but Van Houten as I wait for him to finish eating, the sound of my ice hitting the side of the cup the only sound in the otherwise vacant restaurant.

Peter dabs at his mouth with his napkin, then crumples it into a crinkled ball and lays it on his discarded plate, where it slowly unfurls itself. I keep my eyes on it as I speak.

"So you're here to tell me that I need to stop being selfish?"

Van Houten lets a mildly irritated sigh through his nostrils as he leans back in his seat, the wooden restraints groaning in an almost silent protest. "Hazel, dear. Can't we just have a nice dinner without any accusations?"

My hands form fists underneath the table as he calls me 'dear.' Always chastising me.

"What I want is for you to explain your purpose and then leave. You don't belong here."

"Funny how time and a bit of knowledge can change a mind," Van Houten muses, taking a sip of his champagne. "Months ago you would have sold your soul to have the opportunity to sit across from none other than myself." he gestures to himself grandly.

His cockiness is aggravating.

"Right," I mutter. "But now here we are. So let's get talking, please?" I fight to keep my time even, trying to recompose myself and not come off as a complete bitch, although it's what he deserves.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me why you're here. Why you care about my well-being."

Van Houten seems to think for an eternity, taking long drinks of his alcohol I beverage and even pausing to chat with a passing by waitress. I am about to get up and leave when he begins speaking.

"I understand that Augustus was your boyfriend, someone you cared about deeply," he begins, testing each word on his tongue, as if he actually cares. "And I'm sure your parents have been nagging at you to get back into the swing of things, and live. Live to whatever potential your cancer-filled body can, correct?"

I nod wordlessly, folding my hands under my chin as I listen.

"And I would assume that you aren't moping around for the hell of it. You don't seem as though you're a woe-is-me kind of girl." Van Houten continues. "When I lost Anna, I felt the same. People were of course a little more gentle when they urged me to move on from my grief, because she was family, one of my own. And I wanted, still want, to be able to live at least a fraction of how I used to. A manageable happiness, even if it's a little forced."

He gives me a sad smile. "I think we're on the same boat, Hazel. We desperately want to move on, emerge new from our grief, but something tells us we can't. Not because we have any hope of getting the ones we've lost back, but because once we can go on without them, the pain ceases to exist, it gets easier to manage. You begin to store it in a little box inside your mind, locking it in so it can't pop up on you. Something to pull out on death anniversaries and smile sadly at. You do not want to move on because it means forgetting, it means going on without someone."

I don't realize a tear has escaped my eye until I feel it on the back of my hand. I furiously swipe at my face to diminish it. "I don't think the pain just goes away." I say quietly.

"That's what you tell yourself." His voice is softer, and that almost makes it worse. "That's what you tell yourself because I'm some sadistic way you want to feel it. You want to feel it because it's a reminder that anything happened at all."

"Stop acting as though you're in my mind and know all my thoughts." I snap, although the more I dwell on his words, the more I realize I can relate to them. It makes me more upset than anything to know that this man has figured me out before I had even done so myself.

"So Hazel, I guess that leave why I'm here, why I care," he leans back further yet in his chair, this time it letting out a scream as if in agony, although he doesn't lessen his weight on it. "You do not want to live like me, I can imagine. I guess what I'm saying is, Anna didn't get the life you have received. She had much less years, much less happiness than you have had. I am asking you to not throw it away because you are afraid of forgetting Mr. Waters. He has ceased to exist on planet earth, and there isn't anything in this God-forsaken universe that you can do about it. Yku needn't forget about him, but let go of the grief. Yes, it'll make it easier to think about him, which means it'll seem like you miss him less. But I'm going to go with the cliche line here and say that Augustus Waters would have wanted you to be happy."

"No he wouldn't," I sniffle, defeated. "He was a self-conceited bastard." I can't help but laugh.

Even Van Houten gets the faintest of smirks on his face. "That I can believe."

We sit in silence for a while, lost in out own thoughts. I wonder if I can let myself get over Gus. Not forget him, or what we had, or stop missing him, but maybe be happy again. Love the time I had with him, be thankful for what I did get. Because like Peter said, some people don't even get that much.

"Are you going to try to do the same thing?" I murmur after a long time.

Van Houten's eyes are glassy when he meets gazes with me. "I think so."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to ****jennylb472****, ****Desss4ever****, ****Karenvdakker****, ****keerthana13****, ****Black Raven Feather****, Maddie, Guest, and ****lissyhutcherson****. (I did get more than 50 reviews, sorry it took me longer to update! D:)**

**lissyhutcherson**** - Thank you for the feedback! I will try to make the chapters longer! However, the update will probably be a lot further apart it I do it that way. Which would everyone prefer? ****Although I'm actually thinking of ending this fanfiction soon, unless I get a sudden epiphany of ideas**

**As usual, thank you for the reads and everything else. I kiss you. **


End file.
